Never After
by milgrom
Summary: Trust is foreign for her, and not for him. But they are alike in so many ways, just under the surface. A very unique friendship between the monster and the hero. Featuring a renegade male Shepard, called Mason and the ever maddening Morinth as they walk on eggshells around one another.
1. Chapter 1

The bass beat like fists in her mind; eyes pulled one direction to the next, flitting over face, over species, over desires and their range. Like five nights past, not a one struck her fancy. Omega had its denizens, yes, but there were nary few who drew even a modicum of interest. The girl, Nef – pretty young thing that she was – had only been a tiny night-moth amid the convalescent glare of the station. A distraction that had proved fatal for the girl. A shame, such a waste for such a small taste.

"Is everything to your satisfaction?" The waitress said, drawing Morinth out of contemplation for but a moment. The thin strips of red silk brought out the fair lavender of her skin. A lovely visage, but one expected no less from Aria T'Loak. Her girls were the masters of whispers as well as the most beautiful asari and not a single doubt played on Morinth's mind as to if the so-called Queen knew of the viper in her nest. The thought was a pleasing one. Aria considered herself without equal but Morinth knew how all, every single asari alive, feared the ardat yakshi. It was base instinct alone that drove them to hate. To burn. To lock away the denizens of her kind.

She was the beast they could never tame. She was the itch that never could be scratched. She was the disease that would never, _ever_ be purged. Strength came with that. For her, not for them. They tried, with their pitiful monastery. Their slave house. Their silent, celibate progeny of the future.

"It is, yes. Thank you." Morinth inclined her head politely and took a sip of her drink. She sighed, bored, left wanting and without accompaniment. Light blues, killer in their shade and ability to knock one off their feet, scanned the crowd once more. Futile, she knew, but efforts must be made for needs that are never, ever sated. The beast inside of her was howling, pacing its cage, clawing, ripping and the racket in her veins was enough to make a fine crack in her usual mask. She may have smiled, may have held herself with dignity and grace, but her eyes did not reflect the image she presented. They were dead. Should one look closely, they would see it, her ill intent that never left her side. The eyes bestial and ruthless that devoured all weakness, all feeling and memory.

The stink of sweat pervaded every sense around her. Afterlife was a droll little playground and had lost much of Morinth's joy. She was a traveler, a wanderer and wealthy vagabond. She was the embodiment of freedom, the pinnacle of evolution that breathed, that moved, that adhered to nothing but wind. Bodies below mingled, pressed and sweltered together in a sway perfectly in time with the deep thrum of music. It pounded in her chest and she moved then, among the faceless wretches. She was hunting this night, come hell or heaven both, she would find a suitable mark.

Hips flicked right, left and feet danced their way softly into the fray. No hand dared to touch her or the thin strips of gold and green she wore, but they circled her, drawn in by awe, fear and desire. They could smell her power. Their collective subconscious bent to her every want and need. She should be pleased, but Morinth was not. Routine stagnated. Routine dragged you down. Routine dulled senses and instinct. Routine was more dangerous than she could ever be.

It would be her last night on Omega, she decided as she sidled up to a dashing sort of human man – green eyes like jungle leaves soaked in humid dew, brown hair crested lightly along his ears, red, irradiated scars faintly touched a striking jaw and freckles mingled in between. He stopped his movements, for the barest of moments to behold her, to fall victim to her smile. Part true, part false, she fed off the waxing poetic he inspired. Handsome for a human, quaint features, would have been one to the next were it not for the crimson marring.

"Do you want to dance, love?" It was a whisper, true, but her will was potent and he heard her as though lips had grazed his ears.

"Yes," his quiet voice danced along her skin, rising bumps and pleasurable shivers. A strong arm found its way to her hips and moved, rhythm capturing them both, her own hands traced over his neck and shoulders, feeling steady beats of his heart. The air around him stilled, gathered like a cloak of perfect, utter silence.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, centuries … She was not sure how long they danced, or if they spoke, or even exchanged names. But now they kissed. His taste was vivid. His hands, his shy and clumsy dance steps, his eyes that overwhelmed her own. Everything. She plied him gently, savoring the most minuscule of tastes; he dreamed of broken fingers, tall trees crowding, dark shadows howling. Her eyes never blackened, her mind never took on that visceral, primal edge; thousands of voices stood silent, waiting and curious.

"I have an apartment." Her voice was hoarse. She lowered her eyes, caught a breath.

"I don't know your name." He answered.

"Mirala." Long forgotten, she dipped her head, Unsaid for many centuries, she bared teeth in reflex. She covered with a slight nod, but inched closer. "And yours, Mister Mysterious?" Her voice dripped pleasantly and she chided herself for the revelation. Her breath was short, trapped in her chest. Her true name felt foreign on her tongue. So long she had spent the long days hiding, trawling the back alleys and dead colonies, feeding on poor unfortunates, growing, changing – but realities never leave, and sometimes …

Names held power. They held truth.

"Mason," a hand to his chest and the first smile she had seen since their interlude began. She tasted his syllables and reveled in the whiskey sour, smoke and oil. "Mason Shepard." He kissed her hand, rough, scarred lips a pleasant pressure along her knuckles. Morinth shifted her body, hip against his thigh, enough to make him compensate and move himself under the light. The orange glow bathed him, faint scars seemed to glow under his skin. They cut against his cheek, his brow, lips and in the depths of his eyes, red flickered too.

She stood then and slipped from his warm skin and heartbeat. Her body ached for it, and she extended her hand. "It is not far from here, Mason Shepard." He joined her then and she admired his height, his broad shoulders and collar bone and how she could feel his pulse through her fingertips.


	2. Chapter 2

"I did not want this," Mother had whispered. "Mira," her eyes shut and then opened. "My brave, brave Mira." Tears shone in the eyes they shared and collected on the ridge of defined cheekbones. She knelt and took the hand that gave comfort once, that sought death even in those final moments. They flashed in her minds' eye, the centuries spent so long in their grand chase. The chase that had finally – finally come to an end.

"I did. I wanted this." Her voice was cold and childlike. "I _wanted_ this." She had whispered inches from the Justicar's face.

"Even now, Mira?"

"Yes." A single word, a short breath. "_Yes_, even now."

Her heart pounded. Blood pooled between her fingers. Breath heaved in her lungs. At her feet, Mother gasped. Mother had fearful eyes and twitching limbs. Mother had no voice, Morinth – _no, Mirala_ – had taken it. The wayward daughter had taken _all_. The voices, the formless void, the ever shifting thousand whispers were silent. Only Mother's ragged breath remained.

Two times this night she had spoken her name. The power that should have consumed her did not. They dared not a word in his presence. She turned to this Mason Shepard, memorizing the moment of her ultimate prize. Her eyes burned. Blue fire still sparked across her fists. Manicured nails were cutting into her palms.

It was reality, it was the truth she had feared. Blessed, in a sense. A laugh danced across her tongue. It was high, girlish and unnatural and she felt tears stream down her cheeks. She felt like singing.

"We should go." His voice was shrill and resounded against the blood-splattered walls. "Someone will have heard us." He fussed with the cuffs of his suit jacket. His nonchalance was more than appropriate.

She stood straight and met his eyes. "I take my precautions." The bones in her neck were strained by taut musculature. Her freckled jaw ground her teeth together. "No one lives around here. It is a dead zone."

"What does that mean?"

"This building is mine, below us and above us. No one. Nothing. When we leave I will detonate several explosive charges that will reduce this floor, and the five above and below it, to rubble." She dropped the usual metaphors she used in the hunt. Her mind was wildfire before him, the voices crackling to life with new found interest. He knew her mother, the one still bleeding out a pretty shade of blue. The face they shared was death itself, Mirala one day would look much the same. "I am not … ordinary."

"I was made aware." He stepped toward her, pride radiating and a daring expression. "Neither am I."


	3. Chapter 3

Blue eyes were sharp, flitting target to target and every muscle trembled with power. Staccato gun fire, battle shouts and death rattles echoed around her and crackled across the comms. He was ahead of her and to the left, hawkish eyes fierce and determined. He too was a hunter. He too analyzed, surveyed – every step was precise and tactical. Even in heavy armor he moved with grace, shouldering a Krogan manufactured shotgun as though it were a simple sidearm.

"Garrus?" The Commander's voice was soft like a lover's whisper in her head. He uttered only a name, but the question was two-fold and told a story of friendship and the bond of brotherhood between soldiers. She knew many like the human Commander and his Turian counterpart. Bred to be military, bred to be the best of the very best. Artful in the ways of death, much like her and yet so different. They were warriors with purpose, she was freedom embodied. She was the future, no matter how bleak, no matter how desolate.

"Six and Ten, due north three-hundred yards and a click, maybe two west of that." The Turian's flanged voice came on the comms and off. Morinth knew he was ahead of their merry band along with the Drell, Thane. Snipers. Shadow weavers as much as they were able to move through them. All of them knew combat on a daily basis. For her, it had been nearly two centuries since she left herself open to the press.

Mother flashed behind her eyes. Alive, dead, and alive again. Her pulse rode high on adrenaline, a savage beat within her chest. She drew up close to the Commander. She did not speak, instead motioning ahead where three Eclipse sisters lay in wait.

* * *

After, she sat primly. She was comfortable only to a point. The wide windows offered a languid view of the space above and all around them. The subtle hum of the ship did nothing to soothe the caterwauling creatures in her mind. Battle music still played, the shrill tones making mockery of memories and choices. What was she doing here, she wondered? A flick of her wrist, a quick examination of her nail beds. Her fingertips were callused from the guns so affably afforded to her.

"Do you have a minute?" She had not heard him enter. She did not look up from her hands. She was a model of nonchalance despite the rush and roil just behind her eyes.

"Of course, Shepard." She smiled softly. She used his name, but he did not use hers. He could call her Morinth, the name of cannibal nightingales she had adopted on a lark. He could call her Mirala, her given name, as he had certainly earned the right. But, she was unused to this … camaraderie. Is that was it was? Perhaps.

"How are you holding up?" She resisted the urge to laugh. The elation she felt was nothing compared to the dreams she had been having these past few weeks. She awoke sweating and with the baleful echoes of a sister's laugh. Memories were no longer idealized and lathered in half-truths. With Mother's end came revelation, and not one she had expected.

"It is enlightening, your mission. I have read what has been made available to me. I have run across Collectors before, though I have never had the pleasure of dealing with them.

"That isn't what I asked."

"Ah. Personally, then? I suppose I am well. It is … strange. Being among her things, that is. But not to worry, hers is a part I have played before. I do not think anyone suspects I am not the Justicar." She flashed teeth, pure habit when one dredged to close.

"Good. Is there anything you need?" He crossed his arms, the muscles along his biceps twitching and pulsing most pleasantly.

"A stiff drink," she chuckled out. "Perhaps a night of revelry?" She cocked her brow ridge, testing, and laughed again at the minuscule narrowing of his fetching eyes. "No, I suppose not." She sighed. "I have a wonder, Commander, if I may be so bold."

"Of course."

"If you do not trust me, why did you allow me onto your ship? Why did you allow me unfettered access to files and databases? I know full well what I am and what I am capable of. I would not trust me, were I in your position."

He stood still as stone, hawkish green eyes boring into her head - or so she perceived. The lack of hallex, red sand or other intoxicating amusements had her mind in shambles. She could fake the sharp edge, she could fake the pretty, knowing grin and mystery afforded to females of every species. Inside though, behind the cold iron mask, she was fading.

With revelation came elation but also reality. The cold weight of it, the crush in her chest was almost too much. Almost.

"Why do you assume I do not trust you?"

"I know what I am, Mason. I have no qualms of my nature, of my gifts. I am death. I am a consumer of demise. I thrive on it. You, my dashing commander, do not."

"I know what you are too. And I don't care. If you wanted to kill us all, you would have done it. Hesitation isn't part of your nature."

He read her well. Too well. Why had she not slaughtered them yet? Why had she allowed this marvel of a ship to continue on its paladin's crusade? In three weeks she had found no answer. It eluded her like many of her wants, and she was adept at staving the cravings.

But when she looked at him ... Something fired in her chest. A great furnace of desire so different than her usual fare. Amid a sea of billions laden in the very stars, one human man had capacity to soothe the beast within her with nary a word. It was a feeling she dare not name for its newness.

"Why did you choose me?" The mask was cracking. Pieces of it fell on her lap. The scared little girl who watched her father die was in the place so long held by the beast. A ghastly little visage with shaking knees and small hands gripping the hem of her dress.

"You want to survive. Samara, she didn't. She wanted to see you dead and follow after in your wake. Her oath was never for me, but for you." He sighed and did not move, not even a small flicker of a fidget. "You want to be free, right? Were it in your power, you would be content with just being free. Am I wrong?"

She nodded, words failing her like they never have before.

"And you are no slave to genetics. That is why I saved you. Because I wanted to know the whole story, not just the wounded pride of a mother who failed her children."

She never blinked, lost in those leafy green eyes and his words that found the truth so effortlessly. No one had ever ...

"I ... will honor your trust in me." The first promise she ever intended to keep.


End file.
